Wonderful World
by sweetestinthegale
Summary: Top of the world and it's never been more lonely for secretly gay Quinn.  More closed off than bitchy per say.  No baby, broke up with Finn, horribly repressive home environment.  Isn't Rachel pretty?  Let's hope for a princess charming story. Faberry.
1. Chapter 1

**Quinn was never preggo. Still a lovey dovey virgin. She is lonely and depressed and dealing with avoidance. So not dealing. Not so bitchy/attack-y in her single status as she "spontaneously" broke up with Finn. Not too motivated to trod on the peasants, in other words. Just... angsty Quinn. **

**Been there, done that, but here we go anyway with some Faberry. ****We'll see how this goes.**

**Not my characters. Yet here they are.**

**Enjoy.**

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><p>Quinn was often struck with the notion 'life is pointless'. Struck in a dull, redundant fashion in the dark of her room.<p>

She was struck with it now, pencil in hand, tapping slowly against her perfectly straightened desk. Perfect. Like the blue of the sky out her window, and Judy down in the kitchen, fixing dinner. Dressed in her pretty yellow dress, drink in hand. It never was very far away. Not in a beautiful, cold house filled with beautiful, cold people.

No wonder she drank like a fish.

Quinn shut her eyes. When she opened them the unpleasantness remained. It clung like a second skin she could not shed. This feeling inside the very pit of her: what could she do to throw it out?

She placed her forehead on the cool desk and breathed quietly. She could not shake the restlessness. It seeped into her skin, into everything. What was the point, living like this? Living at all?

When her mother called her down to dinner the realization washed over her.

Quinn wanted to die.

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"Emotion guys! We need to sing with real, soul wrenching emotion!"

Mr. Shue stood at the front of the room, a wide, enthusiastic smile on his face. He held an uncapped marker in hand. _Emotion_ was written on the white board behind him.

Mercedes raised her hand, though she didn't wait to be called on before speaking. "Mr. Shue, I thought you said emotion was what we do best. Has that changed?"

"Of course not Mercedes! I really admire how you guys get into your singing! I do. You have passion! But we need to pick songs that really speak to us." He underlined _Emotion_ with flourish. "So this week I want you to sing about the emotion that most often dominates you. Pick a song that demonstrates who you are emotionally, what really guides you through the day. We'll begin singing on Wednesday."

"Mr. Shue, I already have the perfect song in mind! Funny girl has taught me-"

And so the familiar routine began.

Quinn sat in her chair, cross-legged. The only anticipation she had was to leave, though even that was darkened by reality. What did she have to look forward to? Practice? Friends? Home? As if. Monotony stretched black and thin before her, utterly terrifying.

It seemed like she wasn't the only one neglecting the assignment.

"You'll bring the wine coolers, Puckerman? Cause I ain't goings ta go if there ain't no booze."

Santana, Quinn thought. Charming as always.

"As long as you bring your fine self sweet cheeks," Puck reassured, "I'll take care of the rest."

His wink was outrageous. Santana's answering smirk was entirely too satisfied. Finn was staring at Rachel, a constipated look on his face. Kurt was chatting with Mercedes, Brittney and Santana's pinkies were linked, Artie and Tina were kissing and everyone was all smiles and relaxation.

Were there black holes for them too? Quinn closed her eyes. Is it the world or is it me?

_And I think to myself... what a wonderful world._

She had completely zoned out. Missed Rachel walking to the front of the room. But, somehow, Quinn could never miss her singing.

Those deep brown eyes were absolutely shining.

_...The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night_

_And I think to myself... what a wonderful world._

Quinn realized, with a start, that she was smiling. It fell off then, rather abruptly, but she couldn't help but wonder...

When was the last time she had smiled?

_And I think to myself... what a wonderful world._

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The next day came in slow agony for Quinn. Her body ached. Her eyes were equally irritated. She wanted to sleep and never wake up.

She stared at the faces of nameless students as they passed by in the halls. Did they know what it was like to feel completely alone, surrounded on all sides? All these people, she thought, floating. One hard knock and they could be disconnected forever.

Lost in thought she ran straight into Santana.

"Jesus Q, watch where the hell you're going." The Latina brushed the nonexistent dirt off her shoulders before her eyes narrowed. "Hey, what's up with you? Its hot as balls and you're wearing a goddamn parka." She paused, looking decidedly uncomfortable. "Are you... you know, OK? Or whatever."

For someone who didn't do emotions that was about as much of a heart to heart one could expect.

Quinn rolled her eyes. "Its a cardigan, S." She said. "And I'm fine. I'll see you later."

She ignored the other girl's opening mouth and slipped back into the stream of flesh colored blurs. One fish in a river in a swell of rivers.

Pointless.

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Glee club was brief. Ideas were discussed but Q was lost in her mind clouds, drifting. She didn't say a word the entire practice. Only two people seemed to notice: a certain suspicious Latina and a girl with big, earthy eyes.

Reflecting at home later that day Quinn wasn't sure how she had ended up this way. If she had been born with this heavy heart or if circumstance had pressed down on her, hard and unrelenting. Was it Lima, Ohio? The unlucky combination of the place and herself?

Maybe if she were a normal upper-middle class, white teenage girl, it wouldn't matter. Maybe if she could be content with dating the high school quarterback, and graduating to become a real estate manager, and marrying a nice Christian man, she would be ok, just peachy keen. But Q had accepted she wasn't normal. That was the problem. On the outside she was. Maybe a bit prettier than most, so pretty it made her want to punch something. In appearance she was deceptively normal.

But Quinn was also totally and completely gay.

Her parents didn't know. She thought her father might sometimes, the way he would look at her with such disdain in his eyes. But it was a general disgust he held for her and not some secret awareness. Still, it sometimes sent a thrill of fear through her, crippling in nature.

No one at school knew, either. Her image as head cheerio, leader of the celibacy club and straight A student was so wholesome she was sure she would be one of the last people anyone would peg as a closeted lesbian. She was an it girl at the top of the food chain that was McKinnley high school.

She was dead inside.

Quinn stared at her bruised arms in her full length mirror- deep blacks and purples tinged in blue. They were a little beautiful, even if getting them had been the furthest thing from it.

When she was five she had once tried to catch a butterfly by slapping her hands together. When she had pulled her hands apart the butterfly had fluttered to the ground, dead. Her fingers had been covered in a fine purple powder from the butterfly's wings that shimmered in the sun.

Quinn's bruises didn't shimmer but they reminded her of the dead butterfly nevertheless, her own capacity for cruelty. And of her father's.

"How was school?"

Quinn had long ago accepted that there were parts to be played. She had her role, as did her mother. As did he. Did it make him happy? She sometimes wondered. The terror he induced. Was her fear amusing to him? She knew her disrespect wasn't.

She remembered smiling once when he accidently spilled wine all over his crotch. A simple, fleeting twitch of her lips. An automatic response more than any actual amusement.

Russell hadn't been amused.

In a flash he was over her, blow after blow raining down on her back as she cowered; as he screamed, over and over, face redder than she had ever seen it _"That shit isn't funny!"_ He had left himself hoarse and Quinn unable to move for days.

He was right. It hadn't been funny after all.

"Fine," she answered, carefully resting her fork against her plate. She looked at him because he would be angry if she didn't._ 'Look me in the fucking eye Quinnie! Don't be a cowardly little shit._' "I got an A on my Spanish test. And in English and Math." She rattled off the facts quietly, without a hint of pride.

They were expectations, not accomplishments.

Judy smiled. A weak thing. She'd been a ghost too long for anything with real substance. "That's nice Qui-"

"-Did you go to practice?" Rusell's eyes bored into her, relentless.

Judy startled at the interruption, her eyes turning down to her plate. Her hand tightened around her wine glass. Pale.

Quinn kept her eyes on her father. She knew what he was really asking.

Did anyone see?

"No."

She had told Sue her uniform was in the wash. Sue had banned her from practice, and to the bottom of the pyramid at the next. She would have some extra suicides to run, maybe some laps.

Maybe indeed.

Quinn wasn't looking forward to it, but it was better than the alternative.

"Good." Without another word Russell knocked back the rest of his glass, then reached for the bottle.

The Fabray's ate the rest of their dinner in silence.

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She was going to die. Quinn was convinced. Her lungs burned, her legs burned, oh dear god did they burn. She was sure she had a piece of flaming coal for a heart the way it seemed to wrench so awfully in her chest, cleaving it in two. Why would anyone do this to themselves? Why did she?

Fuck cheer leading, she thought. Fuck Sue, fuck my fucking father-

"Ten more laps, Q!"

She collapsed on the ninth; got up, staggered the tenth, and promptly threw up at the finish. Her throat burned, too.

Sue pursued her lips and, uncharacteristically, left without a word.

Quinn was grateful.

Thighs quivering, vision blurry, chest heaving, she glanced up to see Santana standing by the bleachers. It was impossible to read her expression from so far away, unnaturally still as she was. They simply looked at each other.

Then, with a flick of her skirt, Santana turned and walked off the field.

Quinn dropped her head and let herself fall forward into the grass, pressing her cheek to the ground.

She fucking hated cheer leading.

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"Quinn." The short brunette popped up behind Quinn's shoulder as the cheerleader rifled through her locker. As always, the singer seemed to radiate a certain wide-eyed earnestness. "It has come to my attention that as of late you are completely exhausted. Studies on sleep deprivation have shown that a lack of sleep leads to a lack of productivity and a general unhappy, lackluster disposition." She licked her lips nervously. "May I inquire as to what may be ailing you?"

Quinn shut her locker. "I'm fine Berry. Never better." She smiled, razor thin and insincere.

Undeterred, the brunette continued. "While I am well aware that we are not what would typically be described as 'friends', as a fellow teammate I am concerned for your well being. You are a valuable member of glee, Quinn- it is important you take the proper precautions to ensure you are able to participate in the upcoming competition and contribute during regular meetings. And-" Rachel faltered slightly, flicking her gaze down briefly before meeting Quinn's again "-on a personal level I'm... worried."

The blond froze. Felt something like a fist in her throat, as if her heart had jumped from her chest and got caught on it's way back down. But the moment passed. Like ice, her gaze turned sharp.

"Don't be."

She walked away before the singer could respond.

Still, when she swallowed... her throat had a pulse.

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><p><strong>So it begins. Thoughts?<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**This chapter is a bit shorter. One day broken up into two parts. The second is pending. **

**In which there is pain, and hopelessness, and some eyes opening, perhaps? Hard to say.**

**Thank you for the reviews. It is nice people are reading- I love to hear responses.**

**More insight into the mind of Quinn and her internal angst. **

**Hope you like.**

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><p>Quinn sat on the floor of her bedroom- had sunk to it -crisscross apple sauce, her right wrist nurtured by her left arm. The wrist that had brushed Rachel Berry in passing yesterday as she moved away from her locker. The wrist her father had slammed against the kitchen counter just minutes ago, like shoes banged together to shed extra dirt. <em>"Move,"<em> he had snarled, reaching for his glass at the sink; near empty but never forgotten.

No use beginning the day without a morning pick-me-up.

Her smooth, delicate skin, one of many desirable features Quinn possessed in her peer's envious eyes, had swelled and darkened. In another life Quinn could imagine she had been bitten by a poisonous spider. Veins of throbbing, dark red- almost purple now (not unlike the shadow of a web), fanned across white flesh in an imitation of a bracelet. She inspected it with a certain air of detachment. Her face, likewise, remained curiously blank.

It was unbalanced, she decided, in some form at least: the human condition, this empty life. The proof of it sat upon her, puffed in victory. Sin. The sins of the Father. Her own sins, addressed by the God of the Fabray household.

Quinn had been hurt before. She was hurt constantly. Yet even as her brain formed logical conclusions about the flawed figure that was her father, and could even comprehend on some level his dubious actions... Quinn continued to be confused by the emotional upheaval she experienced every instance, the strange internal jarring that rang louder than any physical blow.

Rusell twisted his faith in ways Quinn knew were wrong. His "punishments" were guided by impulse, often of a baser, violent variety. But he was only human; one among millions and millions, twisting beliefs to fit personal perception.

And if that were the case...Had she been doomed from the start, simply by being born?

In silence Quinn rose. For the second time in two weeks she left her Cheerios uniform hanging in her closet.

She would have no use for it today.

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At her locker the blonde found no peace. First, there was the fumbling. Her left fingers rested awkwardly on the dial, inexplicably weak. Quinn Fabray didn't _do_ awkward, and she liked to avoid weak whenever possible. Unfortunately weakness seemed to sweep over her constantly, as inevitable as the tides.

She couldn't even open her own damn locker. If that wasn't a sign of complete and utter failure, Quinn didn't know what was.

"Quinn."

She stifled a sigh. Finn. Oh how she hated the sound of their names together. _Quinn and Finn._ The easy rhyme came off as childish. It made her cringe, realizing that same simplicity was why they had gotten together in the first place. Quarterback, head cheerleader- they were the definition of high school sweethearts meant to be.

It was a surprising relief to dodge that particular cliche.

"Hudson." She turned to face him. "What do you want?"

She could have pictured the surprise on his face. Actually seeing it was enough to flare her irritation. Did he always have to look so confused? He had addressed her. Would he have been at a loss if she had remained facing her locker, ultimately dismissing him? Or would that have been expected? Did he think her so cold?

You are, she thought. Cold as a dead thing.

Finn, of course, remained oblivious to her internal musing.

"We've been together for months, Quinn. We ruled the school, the top of the chain! No one could touch us. Then last week you suddenly decide it isn't working?" He shook his head, bewildered. "I don't get it."

For a moment Quinn simply stared at him. Looked past his wounded eyes, the perpetually confused brow. She tried to dig deeper, to see some complexity to Finn Hudson, an internal stirring of any sort. And came up blank.

It really was that simple for him.

"Why did you break up with me?"

She wanted to laugh. She wanted to punch him in the mouth. She wanted to tell him to use his tiny brain and _think_, Jesus. She had no apologies or sorrow to offer, no regrets.

And neither, she knew, did he.

"Honestly, Finn? We were using each other. That's all." She shrugged. Somehow she made the gesture appear elegant. "You can pretend that you loved me to everyone else, but don't pretend to me." She stared pointedly over his shoulder. Predictably, Finn turned to follow her gaze. And saw Rachel, watching them from her locker down the hall. Unlike Finn it was hard to tell what she was thinking.

The cheerleader faced her locker once more. "I got tired of it."

Finn flushed. She could feel him standing behind her in guilty indecision, though thankfully he didn't say anything. She had used up what little patience she had in their meager exchange. After a moment he walked away and Quinn allowed herself to relax. Calmly, methodically, she returned her fingers to the lock.

It would be simple, she knew, to love Finn. He was a simple person. But Quinn had enough pretense in her life. Some honesty where she could get it would be nice.

There was a click. Quinn reached inside to grab her books just as the first bell rang.

Five minutes till class.

When she glanced down the hall, Rachel was gone.

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"What happened to your wrist, fugly? Did you get into a fight? Fall on your fat ass?"

Quinn ignored the Latina. They were in the middle of Spanish class, which both girls could pass with remarkable ease and minimal effort. But Quinn would rather listen to Mr. Shue's dull translations than answer her fellow cheerleader's entirely too probing questions.

"Hey, I'm talking to you," Santana whispered.

Quinn continued to dutifully take notes. The process was made awkward by the fact that she was holding her pencil in her left hand, but the bandage on her right arm- and it's continued throbbing -left her with few options.

"Q."

**Jugar,** she wrote shakily, **is to**-

_"Quinn!" _

The blonde dropped her head onto her desk, utterly spent.

Why did hearing Santana use that tone of voice- almost as if she _cared_ -make her feel like she was about to burst into tears?

It wasn't fair, she decided, that the girl could go from sarcastic bitch to concerned friend in a second flat.

Memories of sleep overs and summer nights spent laughing ran through her mind. Before the trials of high school. Before everything became fucked up.

"_We're the unholy trinity, bitches!" Santana yelled, shaking her fist at the sky. Splayed in the grass alongside her were Brittany and Quinn, the taller grinning and Quinn shaking her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Best friends for life!"_

_"For life!" Brittany happily agreed._

_"Forever." Said Quinn._

Forever.

Quinn raised her uninjured wrist and asked to be excused. Mr. Shue, distracted, let her go.

She took her books with her. Her hands shook, but her eyes were dry.

Santana, of course, wasn't about to let her leave without a fight.

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The brunette pushed her against the bathroom stall.

"Santana-"

"Quinn," the Latina countered. "What. Happened. To. Your. Wrist."

She punctuated each word with a jab to Quinn's sternum.

Quinn batted away the offending digit with her left hand.

"I fell."

"How?"

"It's called tripping- you may have heard of it. You know, when one foot gets caught-"

"Don't give me that shit, Q! Aside from the fact it's your wrist that is bandaged and not your goddamn hand, you are one of the most graceful people I know."

"Gee San, you really know how to woo a girl." The words were light, but her expression was anything but.

She did not need this.

Santana's eyes searched hers. "What are you hiding?"

"Nothing," she answered automatically.

She felt a sharp stab in her throat. Her wrist throbbed, and another pair of brown eyes flashed across her subconscious. Tiredly she let her head fall back against the stall door, only half aware of the sudden quiet of the room. She let her eyes drift up to the ceiling. Fluorescent bulbs, white tile. Clean, pure, blank. Like Finn's expression.

"Nothing," she repeated, her voice soft. "Not a thing."

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><p><strong>Hm, not quite. Does Santana believe her? Have we heard the last of Finn, Rachel, and other characters? Me thinks not.<strong>

**Let me know your thoughts, if you would be so kind.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Same day, part II. Light on the dialogue/interaction, but the next chapter will have plenty of both. Quinn is still sinking, flailing about. **

**Depression is an ugly thing.**

**In regards to the previous chapter: Quinn didn't hurt herself. She wrapped her arm in a brace due to the abuse she sustained from her father. So, no self-mutilation. Sorry for the confusion.**

**Anyway.**

**Thank you for your reviews. I hope you enjoy this next segment, even if it is light on action.**

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><p>Why do we have to feel? Quinn wondered.<p>

She sat in the back of the room at the new directions meeting, arms crossed- gently so as to not aggravate her injury. Her eyes stared unseeingly ahead of her, lost. Physical pain she could deal with. Quinn had been dealing with it for years now, in Cheerios practice and at home. Just one more cross to bear, she thought, not without a hint of irony. But it would be so much easier to bear without emotional attachment.

Russell, after all, would have no need to lash out at her, if he were not so angry.

Judy would not have to hold such guilt in her eyes as she turned from her daughter, crumpled against the floor after a particularly hard blow, washing the memory away- and many others -with countless martinis.

Quinn would not have to experience an overwhelming sense of shame as she slipped yet another article of modest clothing over her bruised flesh... And slipped excuse after excuse past her numb lips.

Her eyes would not follow the tiny form of Rachel Berry in the halls so wistfully, maybes whirling in her skull, a painful longing in her heart.

And maybe, just maybe, Quinn would not feel so completely and totally alone as she quietly walked through her day, a mere shadow of a being; no footsteps beside her, her body absent of any kind human touch.

Slowly, her gaze drifted to Santana at the front corner of the room, seated about as far away from Quinn as she could get.

It would not have to hurt, she thought, when someone cared.

The blonde closed her eyes, remembering the Latina's expression in the bathroom. A naked pleading Quinn hadn't seen since they were kids.

_"You're lying." _

She had wanted to offer Santana something then. Something true. Not, surprisingly, about her father's punishments: not about the abused wrist, limp and swollen at her side. The words that had sprung to the forefront of her mind were, _I'm gay_.

Because Quinn wanted someone to know.

Because she was tired of being alone, without even God on her side.

Because she was sick of hiding her feelings, as if they were somehow perverted, a dark abnormality of fearful proportions.

But she couldn't do it.

Quinn knew she wasn't living an ideal life. She wore a daily reminder beneath her cardigans and long, flowing skirts. She was made aware of it in the silence that followed her wherever she went. Choking. The respect in her peers' eyes, but the lack of familiarity; that apprehensive intimidation- as if they were waiting for the other shoe to drop. No, it was not ideal.

Quinn didn't want to imagine how much worse it could get.

In the bathroom, in the silence stretched thin and airless, Santana's gaze had finally hardened. She had snarled, a dark _"whatever" _under her breath, and left Quinn alone, pressed against the bathroom stall, eyes burning with unshed tears.

I miss you, Quinn had thought as the door swung shut. I'm sorry.

I'm gay.

Slowly, carefully, she had pulled herself together. Blinked her stinging eyes, splashed water from the sink against her pale cheeks. She had stared at herself in the mirror till the calm returned, piece by broken piece. By the time the bell rang she was composed once more.

When she had passed Rachel in the hall on the way to her next class, head held high, her steps hadn't faltered. My cross to bear, she had thought, resolved. Mine alone.

But... Looking at the angry Latina now, remembering the hurt in those dark eyes, certainly didn't make things any easier.

So, Quinn thought. Why do we have to feel? Her arms reflexively tightened against her chest.

Because really, she didn't want to care.

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"You're off the squad."

It was quiet. The air conditioning unit hummed, but that was all. The whirring breath of the machine and Sue, flipping through some papers on her desk. She jotted something down on a pad, the pen scratching the surface faintly.

Quinn knew she ought to say something. Offer some words of protest in her defense. She was cheer captain, after all- one of the best girls on the squad. She had prided herself on that fact at one point. But as she stood before the coach's desk, all she felt was tired. Standing seemed to take all of her will power- she had nothing else.

And she felt like she had even less of that every day.

So she waited.

The older woman finally gave the blonde her full attention. She put down her pen, took off her glasses, and pinched the bridge of her nose.

She leaned forward on her desk.

"You're the captain, Q," she said. "I've let your absences slide in the past. But they've been growing more frequent. Two in the past two weeks, Q! What kind of example is that to the other girls?" Without warning she stood. "If you had a legitimate explanation- slaughtering helpless kittens, for instance -I would be inclined to give you another chance. I'm a reasonable woman." She paused, scrutinizing the girl before her. "But you don't. At least, not one you're willing to give."

Quinn remained silent. Because really, what could she say? For once Sue Sylvester _was_ being reasonable. Quinn had dodged queries, taken the extra laps, and thrown out half-hearted excuses for every missed practice. But it was clear now that her coach didn't buy any of them.

Quinn couldn't say she was surprised.

"Until you can tell me the truth Q I can't have you on the squad. You're no good to the girls as you are now." She gestured at the blonde, indicating her outfit and continued silence, the weary gaze. "Frankly, I don't think you're being very good to yourself, either." She shook her head, disappointment evident. "I said you reminded me of a young Sue Sylvester once- it was because of your drive. You don't have it now."

She sat back in her chair. "Get the hell out of my office."

Like stone Quinn's face remained frozen. It seemed to extend to her throat for she still could not force herself to speak. Instead she turned to leave. She had reached the doorway when Sue spoke up once more.

"And Q? Make sure you have that uniform on my desk by tomorrow morning."

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Quinn didn't attend the celibacy club meeting that afternoon, opting instead to drive straight home. What was the point? Her fellow members were all having sex anyway. Quinn doubted any of them were going to go to hell for it.

Late at night she stared into her closet at the uniform she used to call her own. She thought of Sue, Santana, Brittany.

Rachel.

Closing her eyes Quinn found she didn't have the energy to pray. She didn't know what she believed in any more.

If she believed in anything at all.

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><p><strong>The ups and downs. And the downs.<strong>

**I appreciate any thoughts you have to offer.**


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